Instead, she yanked at my arms and, in doing so, twisted the skin of my wrists; it hurt and forced me to loosen my grip. It was the first time Mabel had ever caused me pain. Within a few seconds, she was out of my grasp and looking around wildly for an escape.
“Mabel.” I knew what was about to happen. “Mabel, please don’t go.”
She turned and looked in the other direction, searching the crowd.
“Mabel.” Her name snagged on the despair gathering in my throat and I fought to hold the tears back. “Please don’t leave me.”
Edith tried to pull me to her, but I yanked away.
As Mabel turned, I tried again, a desperate plea to keep her bound to me. “I love you, Mabel. Please. I need you.”
Without looking back, Mabel headed for the throng of people who were scattering out of the way of the police van pulling into the parking lot. In no time at all, she was absorbed by the crowd, enfolded by her people and pulled into their midst. I watched helplessly as she, too, disappeared from my life.
Eleven
ROBIN
17 JUNE 1976
Yeoville, Johannesburg, South Africa
Edith lived on the eleventh floor of a high-rise in Yeoville, a central suburb in the city of Johannesburg, and though the building was old and shabby from the outside, it had an air of quiet nobility to it. Weathered and proud, it stood like a matriarch watching over the younger blocks of flats, as well as the comings and goings of the neighborhood’s inhabitants. The building, named Coral Mansions by someone with severe delusions of grandeur, shared its block of land with a leafy park on one side and a small grocery store on the other.
It was the first time I’d ever been to Edith’s home, and being allowed into the inner sanctum of her life gave me the opportunity I needed to focus all of my attention outward. I knew instinctively, somehow, that dwelling on the horror of the past few hours would push me into the chasm of loss that had opened up inside of me, and I suspected that being distracted would be a whole lot easier than being brave.
If not a healthy strategy for coping, it was at least one that Edith could supplement with her own brand of denial. She had no clue how to console a grieving child. She didn’t even know how to deal with her own feelings of pain and loss, as her whole life had always been structured around the pursuit of pleasure. Edith got over her heartbreaks and disappointments not by accepting them or working through them, but by distracting herself from them with alcohol, men, parties and adventures. If I was an emotional magpie, then Edith was the most glittering and shiniest of objects. In our dysfunction, we were perfectly suited.
“Here we are,” Edith trilled as she opened the door. “I always said I’d have you over for a slumber party one day, didn’t I?” She said it with such conviction that I could almost believe this was a social visit.
And so the charade had begun.
“Wow,” I said, playing my part, as I stepped inside the Aladdin’s cave of treasures that was Edith’s flat.
One long wall that ran the length of the apartment was covered with shelves that were densely packed with books, records and curios from across the world. Metallic blue-and-green peacock feathers from India languished next to a dried and spindly puffer fish from the Philippines. A red-and-gold-glass clock from Venice ticked serenely next to a grotesque clay effigy from Ghana. It had never occurred to me before how very immense the world was until I saw its footprints in Edith’s home. The opposite wall was covered in framed posters, wall hangings, masks, tapestries and paintings; in some instances, their edges overlapping one another as they vied for space. The entire wall was like a patchwork quilt sewn together from Edith’s vibrant memories.
At the very end of the room, to the left of the large window, was an elaborate gold coop that looked like a miniature version of St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was made up of three separate cages that were fused together, and the center cage—the largest of the three—towered over my head and culminated in a great domed roof. It was a magnificent bird mansion that housed Edith’s African gray parrot, Elvis, who was named after Edith’s idol.
As I stepped closer, Elvis greeted me with the first few lines of “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” while his little head bobbed enthusiastically. I reached for the miniature door.
“Can I let him out?” I hadn’t seen Elvis since Edith’s last visit and that had been months ago. She’d had the bird ever since I could remember; he’d been a gift bestowed by one of Edith’s many wealthy suitors. “He can sit on my shoulder.”
“You and Elvis can catch up later. I’m sure you’d prefer to spend some time with your sister anyway.”
“My sister?”
“Yes.” Edith smiled. “I sent a friend to fetch her from your house. She’s been waiting here for us.” She turned away from me and called out in the direction of her bedroom. “Cat! Come on out!”
I was touched by both Edith’s willingness to pretend that my sister was real, as well as her compassion in sensing how much I needed Cat. The small kindness brought on an unexpected wave of gratitude and, with it, the sting of tears.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
Edith rescued me by ushering Cat and me into the bathroom where she started to fill the huge claw-foot tub. She held up two different kinds of bubble bath. “Lavender or rose?”
I couldn’t decide. “Can I have both?”
“Why not? We’ll make our own concoction and call it ‘Eau de Brothel.’”
“You’re standing on Cat by the way,” I pointed out. She wasn’t really, but I was compelled to fill the silence with chatter. The tiled, humid space amplified sound so that it reverberated through me, filling up my chest so it felt less empty.
“Sorry about that, Cat,” Edith said as she made an elaborate show of sidestepping. “Is this better now where I’m standing?”
“Yes.”
“Good!” Edith emptied a generous amount from each bottle into the stream of water. “There you go. That ought to do the trick. Bubbles, bubbles and more bubbles. I’ll just step outside to give you both some privacy while you undress. Call me once you’re in the tub.”
I waited for Edith to leave the small space before I shot a quick look at Cat. She was faint, more a memory than a vision, and a flutter of panic rose up in me, scraping against my ribcage like a baby bird testing its wings.
Cat?
I couldn’t lose her as well, not now when I needed her more than I ever had before.
“Just look in the mirror,” she whispered weakly—so softly that I almost didn’t hear her—and that faintness, too, made me nervous.
I turned and looked in the mirror. There I was: scrawny chest, long brown hair, blue eyes, and a nose and cheeks covered with freckles; I was pale and had purple smudges under my eyes. At first, all I saw was myself, nothing more, and then the girl in the mirror’s freckles started to fade as the steam from the hot water clouded the glass, and that’s all it took for things to shift into place. The girl in the mirror was me and it also was Cat. I blinked and she blinked back. I grimaced and she grimaced back.
“Hello,” she said, her voice as clear as it ever was.
“Hello,” I said, taking her hand as we stepped into the bath. Once we got used to the heat, we submerged ourselves until the frothy bubbles reached almost higher than our heads.
“Edith!”
Edith stepped inside and scooped up my pajamas, panties and socks from the floor. “I’m not even going to try and wash these. Out they go!”
It only dawned on us once I got out of the bath that I had absolutely nothing to wear, but Edith refused to retrieve the blood-and-urine stained clothes from the bin to wash. Instead, she dug around in her huge closet and found a small T-shirt. “Here you go. This might work.”
It hung off my slight frame comically. “It’s too big.”
“It will be fine for sleeping in.
Pretend it’s a nightgown.”
“What about underwear.”
“Underwear? Pfft. Who needs underwear for sleeping in? I, myself, like to go commando.”
“What about clothes for Cat?” I asked.
“Can’t you do a reverse version of ‘The Emperor’s New Clothes’ and imagine clothes onto her?”
I considered that for a moment. “Okay.”
“Excellent! I’m glad we’ve solved that little conundrum. Now, hop into bed while I go heat you a glass of milk.”
I waited for Edith to leave and then wandered around her room instead. It didn’t contain a princess canopy bed as I’d always imagined, but it was still very feminine. A large queen-sized bed with an ornately carved headboard stood against the wall facing the window. The walls were bare except for two large framed paintings of Elvis (the icon, not the bird), both of which were rendered in black and white.
An oversized dressing table dominated the room, taking up the whole area in front of the window where the afternoon sun filtered through the white netting gently stirring in the breeze. A thin layer of glass covered the wood’s surface, protecting it from the dozens of containers lined up like a cosmetic army. I’d never seen so many different colors of nail varnish, lipstick, pencil, rouge and eye shadow, each of which was neatly stacked in its own designated section.
I randomly opened one of the drawers and peered inside. It was filled with assorted bottles of perfumes, moisturizers and other colored lotions, their fragrances rising up like scented ghosts. The exploration of another drawer revealed hairbrushes, curlers and hairpins, and I ran my fingers along their prickly bristles, enjoying the ticklish sensation until it made me think of my father’s moustache and I snatched my hand back.
My mother never had a dressing table; she kept all her cosmetics in a single bag in the bathroom cupboard, so I was fascinated by the potions and elixirs Edith employed in the alchemy of her beauty. She wasn’t as pretty as my mother. My mom had a softer quality, whereas Edith was all sculpted edges with a longer, harder face. Her hair, usually worn up, was a vivid shade of what she called fire red, and her makeup was always applied with great care. Edith was both artist and creation, and her bedroom was her studio.
When she switched off the kitchen light, I hopped off the bench and padded back to the bed where Cat was already fast asleep. Edith sat on the edge of the mattress and gave me the hot milk, watching as I blew on the surface to cool it down. She kept staring at me as I sipped and it made me nervous. I poked the film of skin floating at the top and sucked it off my finger.
“Robs?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you okay? I mean, I know you’re not okay, but I’m concerned that—”
“What am I going to wear tomorrow?”
I knew what Edith would’ve said if I’d let her. She was going to ask me why I hadn’t cried, and I knew that trying to explain it to her would make me sad. I didn’t feel strong enough to fight back the tears again, and I was disappointed with her for breaking our unspoken rule. If we stopped the charade, even for a moment, the entire illusion would disintegrate and the chasm would beckon once more.
My question worked; it diverted her. Edith smacked the palm of her hand against her forehead and hopped up to go to her cupboard. “I almost forgot! I got you a few things on my travels that I was going to give you the next time I saw you.”
I put the mug down on the bedside table. I’d always loved getting Edith’s gifts, and it had been a while since my last haul. During her travels, she had access to a wide range of expensive merchandise that wasn’t available in South Africa because of corporate sanctions or censorship. She’d always been generous and I enjoyed being spoiled, but now the gifts served the even greater purpose of being further distractions when that was what I needed most.
Edith craned up on her tiptoes and pulled a big packet down from the top shelf. “I can’t remember exactly what I bought, just a few bits and bobs each trip, but I’m sure some of it will be helpful.” She handed it across.
“Thank you.” The bag was stuffed full and I yanked it open. The first thing to spill out was a stuffed toy. “It’s a dog!”
“Not just any dog, it’s Lassie.”
“Who’s Lassie?” I stroked its long fur against my cheek.
Edith shook her head at my ignorance. “Sorry, I keep forgetting how isolated we are here without television. Lassie’s a famous dog and there have been movies and TV shows made about her. She’s a collie.”
“I love her. Thank you.” I set the dog aside and reached inside the packet again.
“Let’s just empty it all out,” Edith suggested, grabbing the bag from me and upending it so all the contents tumbled out onto the duvet. “Okay, this is a Bugs Bunny AM radio. He’s a Looney Tunes character,” she said, holding up a plastic rabbit chewing on a carrot. “He says things like, ‘What’s up, Doc?’ And these ones are Charlie Brown, Snoopy and Linus. They’re from the Peanuts cartoons.” Edith handed across three stuffed toys that looked like drawings. “I wanted to get you Lucy, because she’s the most kick-ass character, but she was sold out. Oh, and look, this is a Mickey Mouse watch. Mickey’s a world-famous Disney character.”
I didn’t know who any of the characters were or who Disney was, but that didn’t stop me from loving the gifts. I put the watch on, marveling at how the mouse’s hands moved to tell the time.
“Aha, I knew I bought you some clothes.” Edith snatched up something. “This is a bell-bottom denim overall. See? The top and the bottom are all in one and look how the pants flare out. It’s all the rage.”
“Are they dungarees?”
“No! Dungarees are what farmers wear, Robs. Overalls are what fashion-conscious nine-year-olds wear.”
I nodded, but before I could take a proper look, I was distracted by two shiny silver objects that had been buried under everything else. “What are these?”
“Oh, I forgot about those! They’re platform disco shoes in faux snakeskin. You like?”
I’d already hopped off the bed and was putting them on. They were a bit too big so I tied the laces extra tight and stood up.
“Pretty snazzy, hey? I bought them to piss your father off . . .” Edith trailed off looking stricken.
She went quiet and the silence made me nervous. I wanted the chatter back because the chatter filled up the time with trivial diversions. Each minute that passed without my crying or thinking or remembering was an achievement, and I knew that if I strung enough minutes together, it would keep getting easier because it had to.
“I love them!”
Edith shook her head as though to clear it and then smiled. “Okay, take them off and get back into bed. You can wear them and the overall tomorrow, and I’ll borrow a T-shirt and jersey from a friend’s son. Everything is unisex these days anyway, so it hardly matters. After that, I’m afraid we’re going to have to go back to your house to fetch your stuff.”
Edith didn’t question me any further about my feelings and I didn’t ask about hers. We were each alone in the bubble of our grief, and while it’s true that misery loves company, sorrow is not reduced or diminished in any way even when it’s shared.
Twelve
BEAUTY
17 JUNE 1976
Soweto, Johannesburg, South Africa
As we latch the gate behind us, a child calls out from the darkness of the house. Her voice is reed-thin and tremulous. “Ufuna ntoni?” What do you want?
“It is me, your father,” Andile identifies himself in a whisper and the front door is wrenched open.
Eleven-year-old Buyiswa scampers out. She throws herself at her father, wrapping her arms around his waist. “I have been waiting for you. I was scared.”
“I am here now,” Andile assures her as he gently loosens her grip. “Where is your mother?”
“She went back to check the clini
cs just after she got home. She told me not to open the door for anyone.”
The boys lead the way inside and we follow.
“Why is it so dark in here?”
“I was afraid to light a candle in case someone saw I was alone.” Buyiswa’s voice is quivering. “I have been sitting on the floor behind the door. The noise frightened me.”
Even from here in Nkosi Street in Zondi, there is no respite from the din. The muffled sounds of explosions and shouting tear through the night. There is looting throughout the township and the sound of glass breaking has become as commonplace in this city of suffering as the sound of birdsong in the hills of my homeland. I have not seen one bird since I have been here and I understand why. If the Lord had given our people wings, would we not all have flown away from here?
I am homesick and want to return to the rural landscape and the green pastures of the Transkei. I miss my sons and my hut and the school I teach at. I miss the tsee-chee-chee of the umvetshana bird—its call so like a herd boy’s whistle—and I miss breathing air that does not feel as though it has been scorched. I have a pain in my chest that will not go away. Is this what heartbreak feels like?
Once we are all inside, Dumi leads me to the living room and helps me into a seat.
“Buyiswa, go fetch candles,” Langa instructs his sister before turning to me to pose a question. “Ufuna into yokusela?”
When I accept his offer, Langa nods to Dumi. “Bring udadobawo a glass of cold water.” He takes a candle from his sister and pulls it close to me so he can inspect the gash on my forehead. It has swollen since yesterday and started weeping again. “You need stitches, Aunt.”
“It will be fine. We just need to clean it again and cover it.”
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